Last week, in Paris, Geneviève Laporte, secret mistress of Pablo Picasso auctioned off 20 of his drawings. The drawings fetched over one million sterling pound. Laporte first met Picasso in Paris in 1944, when she interviewed him for a school magazine following the liberation of the city from German occupation. In Sunshine at Midnight: Memories of Picasso and Cocteau, a book written by Laporte which appeared in 1973 -- the same year Picasso died -- she wrote: "as far as I am concerned -- and Picasso was aware of it -- there never has been and never will be any question of my parting with these drawings." However, Laporte now aged 79, said it no longer made sense to leave the sketches to relatives, hence her recent decision to make them available to the public in order to demonstrate that there existed a more sensitive and compassionate side to the artist. Laporte's collection is composed of sketches of her drawn by Picasso and other souvenirs given to her during the relationship and particularly while holidaying in St Tropez in 1951. Many of those bear the inscription "for Geneviève". In Sunshine at Midnight, Laporte recalls her encounters with Picasso, his comments and reflections on his work, and the time they spent together and in the presence of other artists and writers, such as Cocteau and Paul Eluard. Although notoriously involved with numerous women, including Dora Maar and Françoise Gilot, Picasso's relationships with them were often fraught with problems. In contrast, he was to refer to Laporte as "a hive without bees." In defense of his affair with her, he stated "I was in a terrible state and she saved my life, as they say of doctors. She made me laugh, don't you understand?" Following are extracts from Sunshine at Midnight: Memories of Picasso and Cocteau, translated from French by Douglas Cooper, and published by Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1975. "One phrase in particular -- he very rarely used abstract words -- recurred constantly when Picasso wanted to communicate his belief in something which he considered important: 'It's no laughing matter' or 'I'm not joking.' For example, my notes tell me that one day, talking about drawing, he used exactly these words: 'Drawing is no joke. There is something very serious and mysterious about the fact that one can represent a living human being with line alone and create not only his likeness but, in addition, an image of how he really is. That's the marvel! It's even more surprising than any conjuring trick or 'coincidence' one has ever heard of.' [...] "'Nothing,' he said, 'is harder than drawing a line. Nobody realizes how much you have to think about it.' The phrase 'to think about a line' cropped up frequently, and when I gave him a disbelieving look, he replied: 'Well, you shall try.' "Picasso fetched two sheets of paper and drew on each of them a vase. A sort of pitcher standing on a broad base, flat and rounded in the middle with a narrow neck which flared out at the top. It was like some of those he had made with Monsieur and Madame Ramie of the Madoura pottery in Vallauris. Picasso then handed me one of the sheets of paper and kept the other himself saying: 'I'm going to complete the owl.' And in a few instants he had added two ovals on the next, which became eyes and a V with a line across it, which became a beak. Two thick black lines drawn in the middle produced wings, while two rows of dots in the centre convincingly gave the illusion of feathers. After that, he handed me the pen and Indian ink saying: 'It's your turn.' I thought what he had done was child's play and accepted the challenge with a laugh. The result was disastrous. No comparison was possible. The lines I drew were heavy, meaningless and clumsy: where his owl was really black and white, mine seemed grey. I looked shamefaced; he was delighted. And then, with that tenderness and patience which I had come to know so well, he tried to console me. "'When you were little' -- he was alluding to the time when we first met, when I was, to say the least, adolescent -- 'I used to give you chocolates (true enough!). Now I'm going to explain things to you. You know my nephew Javier...well, I'm teaching him the science of lines. Make the heaviest part first, otherwise your line will seem like an aeroplane which is trying to take off but is continually having weight added to it. Even though I have used black, my owl is white, while yours looks grey. Your black spots are too heavy and too far apart.' [...] "The seaside cemetery of St Tropez was one of the places to which we used to walk, often very early in the morning before the inhabitants of the town were stirring. It was a marvellous place for discussion, though death was one subject we never touched on. Picasso studiously evaded it. But a curious thought once crossed my mind there, and with a laugh I said to Picasso: 'Just think, in fifty years' time I'll be able to tell my grandchildren that I knew you, and I'll tell them lots about you.' I had not at that moment any though of becoming a mother let alone a grand-mother. But to my surprise Picasso did not share the joke. A cloudy look came into his eyes, he sighed, and I was so abashed that I dared no longer speak or move. He spoke first, and over the sound of the waves I was aware of his profound emotion. 'I am grateful to you ... It is marvellous to think that when I am gone, someone who loved me will still be there to say true things about me, and not just anything.'"
